them yours, and from them build up your Tibet. I understood that you were
a poet.

_Poet_. My heart fails me. I have loved and lost. I have seen the dawn,
and it has blinded me.

_Philosopher_. Mary is happy. You could never have made her so.

_Poet_. A sweet, good girl, but--I was not speaking of Mary.

_Philosopher_. So I supposed. Let me remind you--

_Poet_. Remind me of nothing. I remember everything. She was like the
dayspring from on high. When I think of Greece, I think not of Plato and
Sophocles, but of things more delicate and shy; of the tender hedge-
flowers of the Anthology, of Tanagra and its maidens in reedy gowns, of
all of this in a sweet clean light, as she was, and is, and must be. Ah,
and I think of her, as I saw her first in the woodland, in her white gown,
with the sun upon her hair. She was like the fluting of a bird; she was
clear melody. She girt herself high and set her foot in the black water.
She dipped her pure body in above the knees; she, the noblest, the
wholesomest the youngest of the gods. Remind me of nothing, I beg you.

_Philosopher_. I must really remind you of this. You renounced her of your
own deliberation, and promised to dance at her wedding.

_Poet_ (with a sob). So I would, God bless her!

_Philosopher_. That is a charitable sentiment. I have done you good.